Life 'over there' hadn't turned out the way she'd expected. Bitter lines of disappointment were etched round her mouth and eyes, but Agnes was nevertheless still a beautiful woman at the age of forty-two.
The first years had been wonderful. Her father's money had ensured her a very comfortable lifestyle, and the contributions she received from her male admirers had improved it significantly. She had lacked for nothing. The elegant apartment in New York was the frequent setting for joyous parties, and the beautiful people had no trouble finding their way to her home. Offers of marriage had been numerous, but she had bided her time, in the hunt for someone even richer, more stylish, more sophisticated. In the meantime, she had not denied herself any form of amusement. It was as though she had to compensate for the lost years and live twice as fast and hard as everyone else. There had been a feverish eagerness in the way she loved, partied, and spent money on clothes, jewellery, and furnishings for her apartment. Those years felt so distant now.
When the Kreuger crash came in 1932, her father lost everything. A few foolish investments and the fortune he had amassed was gone. When the telegram arrived she had felt such consuming rage at his idiotic behaviour that she tore the piece of paper to hits and stamped on them. How dare he lose everything that one day was supposed to be hers? Everything that would have been her security, her life.
She sent a long telegram back in which she told him in exhaustive detail what she thought of him and how he had destroyed her life.
When a week later a telegram arrived with the news that he had put a pistol to his temple, Agnes had merely crumpled it up and tossed it in the wastebasket. She was neither surprised nor upset. As far as she was concerned, he deserved nothing less.
The years that followed had been hard. Not as hard as those with Anders, but a struggle for survival all the same. Now the only way she could live was at the benevolence of men. When she no longer had any financial resources of her own, her wealthy, urbane suitors were gradually replaced by beaux of lesser social status. Offers of marriage ceased altogether. Instead the propositions were of an entirely different nature, and as long as the men paid she didn't object. It also seemed that something inside of her had been damaged by the difficult childbirth, so she was unable to get pregnant, but that increased her value among her occasional partners. None of them wanted to be bound to her by a child, and she herself would have rather jumped off a building than go through that atrocious experience again.
Agnes had been forced to give up the beautiful apartment; the new one was much smaller, darker, and far from the centre of town. She no longer hosted parties in her home, and she'd had to pawn or sell most of her possessions.
When the Second World War came, everything that had been bad got even worse. And for the first time since she boarded the boat in Göteborg, Agnes longed for home. Her homesickness gradually grew to resolve, and when the war finally ended she decided to go back to Sweden. In New York she had nothing of value, but in Fjällbacka there was something that she could still call her own. After the big fire, her father had bought the lot where the house she'd lived in had stood, and he had had a new one built on the same site – perhaps in the hope that one day she would return home. The house was in her name, so it was still there, even though everything else he had owned was gone. It had been rented out for all these years, and the income had been placed in an account in the event she ever came back. Several times over the years she had tried to gain access to the money, but she was always told by the administrator that her father had stipulated that she would get the money only if she moved back to her homeland. At the time she had cursed what she viewed as an injustice, but now she reluctantly had to admit that perhaps it hadn't been so stupid after all. Agnes calculated that she would be able to survive on that money for at least a year, and during that time she had set her mind on finding someone who could support her.
In order for that plan to succeed, she was forced to stick to the story she had created about her life in America. She sold everything she owned and spent every öre on a dress of elegant quality and a set of fine luggage. The bags were empty – she hadn't had enough money to fill them with anything – but no one would notice that when she came ashore. She looked like a successful woman, and she had also elevated her position to that of the widow of a wealthy man with business dealings of an indefinite nature. 'Something in finance,' she intended to say, with a blase shrug of her shoulders. She was sure it would work. People back in Sweden were so naive and so easily impressed by people who had been to the promised land. No one would think it was odd that she came home in triumph. No one would suspect a thing.
The wharf was full of people. Agnes was shoved here and there as she carried a suitcase in each hand. The money hadn't been enough for a first-class or even a second-class ticket, so she would stick out like a peacock among the grey masses in third class. In other words, she didn't have to fool anyone on the boat by pretending to be a fine lady. As long as she disembarked in Göteborg, nobody would know how she had made the voyage.
She felt something soft nuzzling her hand. Agnes looked down to see a little girl in a white frilly dress looking at her with tears running down her cheeks. The crowd swelled around her, surging back and forth, and no one paid any attention to the little girl who must have lost her parents.
'Where's your mommy?' said Agnes in the language she now mastered almost perfectly.
The girl cried even harder, and Agnes vaguely recalled that children of her age might not have started to talk yet. In fact she seemed to have just learned to walk and looked as though she might fall beneath the tramping feet all around her.
Agnes took the girl by the hand and looked around. No one seemed to be looking for her. Nothing but rough work clothes wherever she looked, and judging by her clothing the girl definitely seemed to belong to a different social class. Agnes was about to call for help when she had an idea. It was bold, incredibly bold, but brilliant. Wouldn't her story about the rich husband who died and widowed her for the second time take on additional veracity if she also had a small child with her? And even though she remembered how much trouble the boys had been, it would probably be entirely different with a little girl. She was sweet as sugar, that girl. Agnes could dress her in pretty clothes, and tie ribbons in those lovely locks. She was a regular little darling. The thought was appealing to Agnes more and more, and in the blink of an eye she made up her mind. She took both suitcases in one hand and the girl by the other and strode towards the ship. No one reacted when she embarked, and she stifled a desire to look back over her shoulder. The trick was to look as though the child naturally belonged to her, and the girl had even stopped crying out of sheer amazement and willingly followed along. Agnes took that as a sign that she was doing the right thing. Her parents were surely not nice to her, since she went with a stranger so easily. Given a little time, Agnes would be able to give the girl everything she wished for, and she knew that she would be an excellent mother. The boys had just been too difficult. This little girl was different. She could feel it. Everything was going to be different.
Niclas came home as soon as she rang. Because she hadn't wanted to say what it was about, he dashed in the front door with his heart in his throat. On the stairs he saw Lilian coming down with a tray, and she looked surprised.
'Why are you home?'
'Charlotte rang me. You don't know what it's about?'
'No, she never tells me anything,' Lilian snapped. Then she gave him an ingratiating smile. 'I was just out buying fresh buns, they're in a bag in the kitchen.'
He ignored her and took the stairs down to the cellar flat in two strides. It wouldn't surprise him if Lilian was standing with her ear to the door right now, trying to hear what they were saying.
'Charlotte?'
'I'm in here, changing Albin.'
He went to the bathroom and saw her standing at the changing table with her back to him. Even from her posture he could see that she was angry, and he wondered what she'd found out now.
'What was it that was so important? I had patients waiting.' The best defence was a good offence.
'Martin Molin rang.'
He searched his memory for the name.
'The policeman in Tanumshede,' she clarified, and now he remembered. The young, freckled chap.
'What did he want?' he said tensely.
Charlotte, who now had finished changing and dressing Albin, turned toward Niclas with their son in her arms.
They discovered that someone had threatened Sara. The day before she died.' Her voice was ice-cold and Niclas waited nervously for her to continue.
'Yes?'
'The man who threatened her was described as an older man with grey hair and black clothes. He called her the "Devil's spawn". Does that sound like anyone you know?'
Rage coursed through his veins in a fraction of a second.
'Bloody hell,' he cried and ran up the stairs. When he tore open the door to the ground floor he almost knocked Lilian unconscious. He had guessed right: the old biddy had been standing there listening. But it wasn't even worth getting excited about now. He put on his shoes without bothering to tie them, grabbed his jacket and ran out to the car.
Ten minutes later he stopped with a screech outside his parents' house after driving much too fast through town. The house stood on the side of the hill, right above the mini-golf course, and it looked exactly the same as it did when he was a boy. He shoved open the car door and jumped out without bothering to shut it. Then he rushed right up to the front entrance. For a second he paused, then he took a deep breath and knocked hard on the door. Niclas hoped his father was at home. No matter how unchristian he was, it wasn't proper to do what he intended to do in a church.
'Who is it?' called the familiar, stern voice from inside the house. Niclas tried the door handle. As usual, the door wasn't locked. Without hesitating he stepped inside and called out.
'Where are you, you cowardly old devil?'
'What in the world is going on?' His mother came into the hall from the kitchen holding a tea towel and a plate. Then he saw his father's austere figure emerge from the living room.
'Ask him.' Niclas pointed a trembling finger at his father, whom he hadn't seen other than from a distance since he was seventeen years old.
'I don't know what he's talking about,' said Arne, refusing to speak directly to his son. 'Of all the nerve, coming in here and standing there cursing and screaming. That's enough now. Get out of here.'
'You know damn well what I'm talking about, you old bastard.' Niclas saw to his satisfaction how his father flinched at his choice of words. 'And how cowardly can you be, threatening a little girl! If you're the one who killed her I'll make sure that you never walk again, you bloody fucking…'
His mother looked back and forth between the two men and then raised her voice. This was so unusual that Niclas abruptly shut up, and even his father closed his mouth without replying.
'Now can one of you be so good as to tell me what this is all about? Niclas, you can't just barge in here and start screaming, and if it's something to do with Sara, then I have a right to know.'
After taking a couple of deep breaths Niclas said through clenched teeth, 'The police found out' – he could hardly bring himself to look at his father – 'that he yelled and screamed and threatened Sara. The day before she died.' Fury took over again and he shouted, 'What the bloody hell is wrong with you? Scaring a seven-year- old out of her wits and calling her the "Devil's spawn" or some such nonsense. She was seven years old, don't you get it, seven years old! And I'm supposed to believe that it was a coincidence that you threatened her the day before she was found murdered! Is that right?'
He took a step towards his father, who hastily backed up.
Asta now stared at her husband. 'Is the boy telling the truth?'
'I don't have to stand here and answer to anyone. I answer only to the Lord,' said Arne bombastically, turning his back to his wife and son.
'Don't even try that. You answer me now!'
Niclas looked in astonishment as his mother followed Arne into the living room with her hands on her hips, ready for a fight. Arne too seemed shocked that his wife dared defy him. He was opening and closing his mouth without any sound coming out.
'Answer me,' Asta continued, backing Arne farther into the room as she came closer. 'Did you see Sara?'
'Yes, I did,' said Arne defiantly in a last attempt to assert the authority he'd taken for granted for forty years.
'And what did you say to her?' Asta seemed to grow a foot taller before their eyes. Niclas thought she was terrifying, and from the look in his father's eyes he could see that he thought the same thing.
'I had to see whether she was made of sterner stuff than her father. If she'd taken after my side of the family.'
'Your side,' Asta snorted. 'Oh yes, that would be something. Sanctimonious fawners and stuck-up females, that's what you have on your side of the family. Is that supposed to be something worth emulating? So what was your conclusion?'
With a hurt expression on his face Arne said, 'Silence, woman, I come from God-fearing folk. And it didn't take long to work out that the girl was not made of good stock. Impudent and obstinate and noisy, not the way girls should be. I tried to talk to her about God, I did, and she stuck out her tongue at me. So I told her a few truths. I still believe I was within my full right to do so. Someone had obviously not bothered to raise the child properly; it was high time somebody took her in hand.'
'So you scared the wits out of her,' said Niclas, clenching his fists.
'I saw the Devil in her recoil,' Arne said proudly.
'You God-damned…' Niclas took a step towards him, but stopped when a hard knock was heard at the door.
Time stood still for a second and then the moment passed. Niclas knew that he had been standing at the edge of the abyss and then retreated. If he'd gone after his father, he wouldn't have been able to stop. Not this time.
He left the room without looking at either his father or his mother and opened the front door. The man outside seemed surprised to see him there.
'Oh, hello. Martin Molin. We've met before. I'm from the police. I'd like to have a word with your father.'
Niclas stepped aside without a word. He felt the officer watching him as he walked to his car.
'Where's Martin?' said Patrik.
'He drove over to Fjällbacka,' Annika said. 'Charlotte identified our nasty old man without much difficulty. It's Sara's grandfather, Arne Antonsson. A bit of a nut case according to Charlotte. He and his son have evidently not spoken to each other in years.'
'Just so Martin remembers to check his alibi, both for the morning when Sara was murdered and for the incident yesterday with the little boy'
'The last thing he did was to double-check the time in question for yesterday. Between one and one thirty, wasn't it?'
'Exactly. I'm glad there's at least one person we can count on.'
Annika's eyes narrowed. 'Has Mellberg talked to Ernst yet? I mean, I was surprised when he showed up this morning. I thought he would have been suspended at the very least, if not fired by now.'
'Yeah, I know, I thought that was what happened when he was allowed to go home yesterday. I was just as surprised as you were to find him sitting there as if nothing had happened. I'll have to speak to Mellberg. He can't just look through his fingers this time. If he does, I'm quitting!' A grim furrow had formed between Patrik's eyebrows.
'Don't talk like that,' said Annika in alarm. 'Have a talk with Mellberg. I'm sure he has a plan for how to deal with Ernst.'
'You don't even believe that yourself,' said Patrik, and Annika looked away. He was right. She seriously doubted it.
She changed the subject. 'When are we going to question Kaj again?'
'I was thinking of doing it now. But I'd prefer to have Martin present.'
'He took off not long ago, so it may be a while before he gets hack. He tried to tell you, but you were on the phone.'
'Yeah, I was busy checking Niclas's alibi for yesterday. Which was airtight, by the way. Patient appointments from twelve to three o'clock. And I'm not just going by his appointment book; I had it confirmed by each of the patients he saw.'
'So, what does that mean?'
'If I only knew,' said Patrik, massaging the bridge of his nose with his fingers. 'It doesn't change the fact that he couldn't come up with an alibi for Monday morning, and it's still suspicious that he tried to conceal his whereabouts. But he wasn't the one involved yesterday, at any rate. Gösta was going to ring the rest of the family to hear where they were at that time.'
'I assume that Kaj will also have to answer that question in detail,' said Annika.
Patrik nodded. 'Yeah, you can bet on it. And his wife. And his son. I thought I'd have a talk with them after I interview Kaj again.'
'And in spite of everything, the killer could still be someone else entirely, someone we haven't even considered,' Annika said.
'That's the worst thing about it. While we're chasing our tails, the murderer is probably sitting at home laughing at us. But after yesterday I'm sure, at least, that he, or she, is still in the vicinity. And that it's probably someone from Fjällbacka.'
'Or else we already have the murderer in custody,' said Annika, nodding towards the jail.
Patrik smiled. 'Or else we already have the murderer in custody. Well, I don't have time to hang around here, I have to go talk to a man about a jacket…'
'Lots of luck,' Annika shouted after him.
'Dan! Dan!' Erica yelled. She could hear the panic in her voice, and it just made her more upset. She frantically rummaged through the covers in the pram, as if her daughter had somehow been able to hide in a corner. But the pram was empty.
'What is it?' said Dan, who came running, with an anxious look on his face. 'What's happened? Why are you yelling?'
Erica tried to speak, but her tongue felt thick and clumsy, and she couldn't get any words out. Instead she pointed with a trembling hand at the pram, and Dan hurried to look inside.
He gazed down at the empty space, and she saw the realization hit him like a hammer blow.
'Where's Maja? Is she gone? Where's…?' He didn't finish his sentence but looked about wildly. Erica was hanging on to him, panic-stricken. Now the words gushed out of her.
'We have to find her! Where's my daughter? Where's Maja? Where is she?'
'Shh, there, there. We'll find her. Don't worry, we'll find her.' Dan concealed his own panic so he could reassure Erica. He put his hands on her shoulders and looked her straight in the eye. 'Now we have to stay calm. I'll go out and look for her. You ring the police. It'll be all right.'
Erica felt her chest heaving spasmodically in an odd imitation of breathing, but she did as he said. Dan left the front door open, and a cold wind blew into the house. But that didn't bother her. She felt nothing other than paralysing panic that made her brain stop working. For the life of her she couldn't remember where she'd put the telephone. Finally she just ran round and round the living room rummaging under pillows and tossing things aside. At last she realized that it was in the middle of the living room coffee table. She flung herself over it and with stiff fingers punched in the number of the station. Then she heard Dan's voice outside.
'Erica, Erica, I found her!'
She dropped the phone and rushed to the front door, heading for his voice. In her stocking feet she ran down the steps and out on the driveway. The wet and the cold went right through to her skin, but she couldn't care less. She saw Dan running towards her from the front of the house; he was carrying something red in his arms. A terrific wail rose up and Erica felt relief wash over her like a storm swell. Maja was screaming, she was alive.
Erica ran the last few yards that separated her from Dan and grabbed Maja out of his arms. Sobbing she hugged her daughter close for a second before she went down on her knees, lay Maja on the ground, and tore open her red overalls to examine her. She looked unhurt and was now screaming to high heaven, flailing her arms and legs. Still kneeling, Erica lifted her daughter up and pressed her tight once again, as she let tears of relief mix with the falling rain.
'Come on, let's go inside. You'll both be soaked,' said Dan gently as he helped Erica to her feet. Without loosening her grip on the baby she followed him up the steps and into the house. The relief she felt was physical in a way that she never could have imagined. It was as though she'd lost a part of her body that was now reattached. She was still sobbing, and Dan patted her reassuringly on the shoulder.
'Where did you find her?' she managed to say.
'She was lying on the ground in front of the house.'
Only now did they both seem to understand that someone must have put Maja there. For some reason this person had taken her out of the pram, sneaked round the house, and placed the sleeping baby on the ground. The panic that this realization aroused made Erica start to sob again.
'Shh… it's over now,' said Dan. 'We found her and she looks unharmed. But we'd better ring the police. You didn't have time to call them, did you?'
Erica shook her head.
'We have to ring Patrik,' she said. 'Can you do it? I never want to let her go again.' She hugged Maja tight. But now she noticed something she'd missed before. She looked at the front of Dan's jumper and held Maja out so she could examine her too.
'What's this here?' she said. 'What's all this black stuff?'
Dan glanced at the dirty overalls but said only, 'What's Patrik's number?'
In a shaky voice Erica told him the number of Patrik's mobile and watched as Dan punched in it. A hard lump of fear had formed in her stomach.
The days ran into one another. Anna's feeling of impotence was paralysing. Nothing Erica's sister said or did escaped him. Lucas was watching her every step, listening to every word.
The violence had increased too. Now he openly enjoyed seeing her pain and humiliation. He took what he wanted, when he wanted, and God help her if she protested or resisted. Not that she would even think of it now. It was so obvious that there was something wrong with his mind. All barriers were gone, and there was something evil in his eyes that aroused her survival instinct and told her to go along with his demands. If only she would be allowed to live.
For herself, she had shut down completely. It was looking at the children that pained her the most. They were no longer allowed to go to day-care, and spent their days in the same shadow existence as she did. Listless and clinging they regarded her with dead eyes, and it felt like an accusation. She took full blame for what was happening. She should have protected them. She should have kept Lucas out of their lives, precisely as she had intended. But a single instant of fear had made her give in. She allowed herself to be convinced that she was doing it for the children's sake, for their safety. Instead she had surrendered to her own cowardice. It was her habit of always taking what seemed the path of least resistance, at least at first glance. But this time she had gravely misjudged her options. She had chosen the narrowest, trickiest and most perilous path available, and she had compelled her children to come along as well.
Sometimes she dreamt about killing him. To anticipate him in what she now knew would be the inevitable conclusion. Occasionally she would watch him as he slept next to her, during the long hours of the night when she lay awake, unable to relax enough to escape into sleep. Then she would imagine with pleasure how one of the kitchen knives would slip into his flesh and slice through the fragile thread that bound him to life. Or she would feel the rope cutting into her hands as she cautiously looped it round his neck and pulled it tight.
But it went no further than wonderful dreams. Something inside her, maybe an inherent cowardice, made her lie still in bed while dark thoughts ricocheted around in her skull.
Sometimes she pictured Erica's baby before her in the night. The little girl she had not yet seen. She envied the child. She would be getting the same warmth, the same care that Anna herself had received from Erica when they were growing up, more as mother and daughter than as sisters. But back then she hadn't appreciated Erica. She had felt suffocated and inferior. The bitterness that she felt from their mother's lack of love had apparently made her heart so. hard that it wasn't receptive to what her sister had tried to give her. Anna sincerely hoped that Maja would be better able to accept the enormous ocean of love that she knew Erica was capable of giving. Especially for her sister's sake. Despite their difference in age and the distance that separated them, Anna knew her sister so well. She knew that if there was anyone who was in desperate need of having her love reciprocated, it was Erica. The odd thing was that Anna had always viewed her as being so strong, and her own bitterness had been diluted by that feeling. Now that she herself was. weaker than ever before, she saw her sister as she actually was. Scared to death that everyone would see what their mother had seen, what had made her see the two sisters as unworthy of love. If only Anna had one more chance, she would throw her arms around Erica and thank her for all those years of unconditional love. Thank her for the concern, for the scoldings, for the worried look in her eyes when she thought that Anna was on the wrong track. Thank her for everything that had previously made Anna feel suffocated and constricted. How ironic. She hadn't really known what it felt like to be suffocated and truly constricted. Not until now.
The sound of the key in the lock made her jump. The children also paused with alarm from listlessly playing on the floor.
Anna got up and went to meet him.
Schwarzenegger gazed down at him with concern through his dark sunglasses. The Terminator. If only Sebastian had been like him. Cool. Tough. A machine without the ability to feel.
Sebastian stared up at the poster as he lay on his bed. He could still hear Rune's voice, his phoney voice of concern. That tone of smarmy, feigned caring. The only thing he actually worried about was what people would say about him. What was it he had said?
'I've heard some terrible accusations made against Kaj. I have a hard time believing that it's anything but pure slander, but I still have to ask the question: did he on any occasion behave in an inappropriate manner towards you or any of the other boys? Peeked at you in the shower, or anything like that?'
Sebastian had laughed to himself at Rune's naïveté. 'Peeked at you in the shower…' That wouldn't have been so bad. It was the other thing that he couldn't live with. Not now, when everything was going to come out. He had an idea how things like that worked. They took their pictures and saved them and traded them, but no matter how well they hid them, they would all come out now.
It wouldn't take more than a morning, then it would be all over the school. The girls would stare at him, pointing and giggling. The boys would make jokes about queers and make stupid hand gestures as he walked by. Nobody would have the slightest sympathy for him. No one would see how big the hole in his chest was.
He turned his head a bit to the left and looked at the poster of Clint as Dirty Harry. He should have had a pistol like that. Or even better, a submachine gun. Then he could have done it the way those guys in the States did it. Run into the school in a long black coat and mow down everyone he saw. Especially the cool ones, who were going to treat him the worst. But he knew that it was nothing but a crazy idea. It wasn't in his nature to hurt anyone. It wasn't their fault, really. He had only himself to blame, and it was only himself he wanted to hurt. He could have put a stop to it, of course. Hadn't he ever said no? Not in so many words. Somehow he'd hoped that Kaj would see how it troubled him, how much he was hurting him, and stop of his own accord.
Everything had been so complicated. Because a part of him had liked Kaj. He'd been great, and at first Sebastian had got that fatherly feeling from him. The feeling he never got from Rune. He'd been able to talk to Kaj. About school, about girls, about Mamma and about Rune, and Kaj had put his arm round him and listened. It was only after a while that things had got so screwed up.
It was quiet in the house. Rune had gone off to work, pleased that he'd confirmed what he already thought he knew, that all the accusations against Kaj were utterly groundless. He would probably sit in the lunchroom and loudly complain about how the police made unfounded accusations.
Sebastian got up from the bed and prepared to leave. He stopped in the doorway and turned round. He looked at each and every one of them and gave them a curt nod, as if in greeting. Clint, Sly, Arnold, Jean-Claude and Dolph. The ones who were everything he was not.
For a moment he thought he saw them nod back.
The adrenaline was still pumping after the encounter with his lather, and Niclas felt sufficiently belligerent to take on the next person with whom he had a score to settle.
He drove down Galärbacken and stopped short when he saw that Jeanette was in her shop, busily preparing to stay open on All Saints' Day. He parked the car and went inside. For the first time since they'd met he felt no tingle in his loins when he saw her. He felt only a sour, metallic distaste, both for himself and for her.
'What the hell do you think you're doing?'
Jeanette turned round and gave Niclas a cold look when he slammed the door behind him, making the 'Open' sign flutter.
'I don't know what you're talking about.' She turned her back to him and continued unpacking a box of knick-knacks to price and put up on the shelves.
'You certainly do. You know exactly what I'm talking about. You've been to the police and told them some cops-and-robbers story about how I forced you to lie and give me an alibi. How fucking low can you sink? Is it revenge you're after, or do you just enjoy making trouble? What the hell were you thinking? I lost my daughter a week ago. Can't you understand that I don't want to keep going behind my wife's back anymore?'
'You promised me,' said Jeanette with flashing eyes. 'You promised that we'd be together, that you'd divorce Charlotte, that we'd have kids together. You promised me a hell of a lot, Niclas.'
'So, why the fuck do you think I did that? Because you loved hearing it. Because you willingly spread your legs when you heard those promises about a ring and a future. Because I wanted to have a little fun with you in bed once in a while. I can't believe you're so fucking dumb that you believed me. You know the game as well as I do. You've had your share of married men before, I'm sure,' he said rudely, watching her flinch at each word, as if he'd slapped her. But he didn't care. He'd already crossed the line and had no desire to show a sensitive side or spare her feelings. Now only the pure, unadulterated truth was appropriate, and after what she'd done, she deserved to hear it.
'You fucking pig,' said Jeanette, reaching for one of the objects she was unpacking. In the next instant a porcelain lighthouse whistled towards his head, but it missed and hit the display window instead. With a deafening crash the pane shattered and big chunks of glass came sliding down. The silence that followed was so complete that it echoed off the walls. Like two combatants they stared at each other as mutual rage made their chests heave. Then Niclas turned on his heel and walked calmly out of the shop. The only sound was the glass crunching under his shoes.
Arne stood in helpless silence and watched while she packed. If Asta hadn't been so determined, the sight of him would have surprised her so much that she would have stopped what she was doing. Arne had never before been helpless. But her fury kept her hands at work, folding clothes and placing them in the biggest suitcase they owned. She didn't yet know how she was going to lug it out of the house, or where she would go. It didn't matter. She didn't intend to stay one more minute in the same house with him. Finally the scales had fallen from her eyes. That feeling of dissonance that she'd always had, the feeling that things might not be the way that Arne said, had finally taken over. He wasn't all-powerful. He wasn't perfect. He was merely a weak, pathetic man who enjoyed bullying other people. And then there was his belief in God. It probably didn't go very deep. Asta saw clearly now how he used the word of God in a way that strangely enough always matched his own views. If God was like Arne's God, then she wanted no part of his faith.
'But Asta, I don't understand. Why are you doing this?'
His voice was whiny like a little boy's, and she didn't even feel like answering him. He stood there in the doorway wringing his hands as he watched her remove one item of clothing after another from the drawers and wardrobes. She didn't intend to come back, so it was best that she take everything all at once.
'Where are you going to go? You have nowhere to go!'
Now he was begging her, but the extraordinary nature of the situation only made her shudder. She tried not to think of all the years she'd wasted; fortunately she was cast in a pragmatic mould. What was done was done. But she didn't intend to waste even one more day of her life.
Acutely aware that the situation was about to slip out of his grasp, Arne now attempted a more tried and true method. He thought he could gain control by raising his voice.
'Asta, you have to stop all this nonsense! Unpack your clothes at once!'
For an instant she did stop packing, but only long enough to give him a look that summed up forty years of oppression. She gathered all her wrath, all her hatred, and tossed it back at him. To her satisfaction she saw him recoil and then shrink before her gaze. When he spoke again it was in a quiet, pitiful voice. The voice of a man who realized that he'd for ever lost control.
'I didn't mean… I mean, of course I shouldn't have spoken to the girl that way, I realize that now. But she lacked all respect, and when she behaved so stubbornly towards me I could hear the voice of God telling me that I was compelled to intervene, and -'
Asta cut him off. 'Arne Antonsson. God has never spoken to you. He never will. You're too stupid and deaf for that. As for all that nonsense I've listened to for forty years about how you never had a chance to become a pastor because your father drank up all the money – you should know that it wasn't money that was lacking. Your mother kept a tight grip on the pursestrings and didn't let your father drink up more than was necessary. But she told me before she died that she had no intention of throwing their money away by sending you to seminary school. She may have been an unkind woman, but she had a clear head, and she could see that you weren't suited to be a pastor.'
Arne gasped for breath and stared at her as he slowly turned more and more pale. For a moment she thought he was having a heart attack, and felt herself softening inside against her will. But then she turned on her heel and marched out of the house. She slowly let the air seep out between her lips. She took no pleasure in destroying him, but in the end he'd given her no choice.